We Wear the Shadows
by EpicInTheLibrary
Summary: He could wear the sun, he thinks. He could have a wonderful perfect fit jacket that wraps so warmly around him, and keeps him safe from the chill frost hanging about. Stan, Kyle


The swing sways ever back and forth like a metronome, its speed slowed by the heavy deadweight of his mind. It pulls in, sucked forward by the black hole of his thoughts, then breaks away, having a free will of its own, enabling it to decide that no, it doesn't really enjoy being sucked into black holes. Or is it just the wind stirring the cold chains to carry the seat in its gentle repetitive motion?

It gives him chills, frosty demons haunting him in the air, swirling around him, their scraggly tree branch fingers clawed and cradling his head, possessing his mind, his thought process, everything he owns- scratch that, everything he _thought_ he owned. Their grins are horrifying thin razor stunted triangles- isosceles triangles. Twisted, corked, overlapping, defined, and terribly sharp. Breathing sharp, yellowed breath over him, ruffling his hair in the disguise of a light breeze. He sighs with them; he knows they're there. They know he knows. And that's it, he guesses. Supposes there's nothing more to it, really. They exist, they're taking over his mind, and he's resigned. They daren't stop until he's dead. These are the angels of Hell, come to take him away- blessed, they are.

The tallest reaches of the trees wave to him; whether they're greeting him or seeing him off, he does not know. Are they mocking him? Do they think that he doesn't know he's being poisoned, stolen, them knowing themselves exactly what's taking place? Do they think it's funny to watch someone being pulled unknowingly to their demise? Or are they just polite, saying goodbye, it was nice to know you?

He doesn't know any of these trees.

The metal of the slides are frozen over, shining industriously in the fading glint of the orange campfire glow. No one is here but him, the demons, and the trees. Everything else is dead. He knew it would be like this, because no one ever comes here anymore. Once a park is abandoned, it's abandoned. No one comes back. His thoughts turn back to the orange glow of the sun bright. It matches his hair. He could wear the sun, he thinks. He could have a wonderful perfect fit jacket that wraps so warmly around him, and keeps him safe from the chill frost hanging about. Or he could have a pretty flowing scarf, settled on his shoulders, curled softly around his thin neck like a big long cat, a companion to chase away the loneliness constantly fluttering around him like a swarm of peaceful butterflies, caught in slow motion forever, graceful and smooth despite the way their wings flutter all the time. It just works for them. Nothing works for him.

Before his invaded mind can hold root to that thought, he comes up with a positive rebuttal to it: butterflies don't have names. Names represent significance. He has a name. He has significance. He isn't _nothing._ Nothing can't think. He's thinking. That means he has significance and he's something. He beat the butterflies. He didn't beat the demons. But that's okay. The demons are his friends. They have sleepovers and discuss their feelings with one another. They know he feels lonely, and he knows they feel… Well, nothing, really. They have a sole purpose, and they were built to enjoy it. That's why they're always grinning so horribly, because they like what they do. He doesn't know why, just that they do. They told him. And he believes them, because friends are made to trust each other. Right?

Calm down, he tells himself with a laugh. You're thinking too much. The demons laugh with him, shrilly and piercingly, the way they do. It's just the way they are. Like how some people snort stupidly when they laugh, or how some people have dimples when they smile. The demons laugh with ear-splitting shrieks, and what a terrifying sound it is, but he doesn't ever complain or even think about it. He likes their laugh. It makes him feel alive. Though, isn't that the counter of the purpose the demons are supposed to fulfill?

He jumps at the sound of- of a noise. A noise that isn't shrieking laughter or over-thinking. A noise that sounds like something alive that's not him or demons or trees. A noise that's another human being. Homo sapien. That's what they're called, right? Right. It was in a history class or something way back when. And when is the exact word for it, too. When, indeed? He laughs, but inside his head, because that's really where all noise comes from. Inside his head. Yep.

It's another boy. His age, maybe older? No, younger. But not really at all. Perhaps not even a year younger than he is. And he's coming towards himself and the demons. The demons begin hissing, as if in pain, and he tells them to calm down, everything will be fine, he'll take care of this.

The boy approaches with slow, steady steps, sure and clear. He knows where he's going. He knows it all. _I know nothing,_ demon boy thinks dejectedly. Finally the boy is just a step or two from him and speaks.

"It's not true," he comments casually, as if narrating the sky's calligraphic illustration above. What's not true? Everything in the universe? He knew that already. He wonders who this is.

"I know."

The boy rocks back on his heels, the way a nervous, shy person would, but he's not shy. More like curious, but that's not really the right way to describe him. He's not curious. He knows it all. Or perhaps he _is_ curious, just in a different sense of the word. He's a curious subject, like a mystery a detective would solve. Something interesting that anyone would want to stick around to figure out, but not like a puzzle or a hard math problem. Just something different, intellectual, of its own. Or, in other words, alone.

"It's better if you ignore them."

He bites his lip.

"But they're my friends."

"They're not good for you."

What is this boy suggesting? That his only friends are like cotton candy, slowly, gradually eating away at him, picking at his insides like vultures? That he should go find something good for him, go find some vegetables or fruits? Suppose he chances upon an apple. Did the boy ever think of that?

"I like them," he answers weakly, as if a child, denying any obligation to possess a bedtime. This boy, he shakes his head, though without fervor or passion. Just gently, like a mother silently telling her child no because they're at a parent-teacher meeting and she can't just _tell_ him no. It's the kind of head shake that says, I'm sorry, but you're wrong. It's not arrogant or vain in any way, just a genuine belief of the performer.

"They're lying to you. They're not really your friends. They're taking you to a dark place, one that you wouldn't like."

Tears well up in his eyes. He doesn't like that. He doesn't like that at all.

"Can you see them?" he whispers, the absence of his voice shaking pitifully. The boy nods.

"They're all around you. There's so many of them…" He shivers, as if a sudden breeze has struck up like a match and caught hold of him in icy, toothless jaws. The demon boy felt no such thing. "Have you ever watched the sun set?"

"No," he replies, restored of his composure. "I watch its shadows."

"The sun doesn't cast shadows."

"They're orange," he replies confidently. "They're just like my hair."

"Oh," the boy agrees in understanding, enlightened.

"I could wear the shadows of the sun," he declares proudly. The boy looks on with awe. Then his face pools black shadows.

"They don't like me."

He looks about him. The demons are still hissing, in anger _and_ pain. They don't like this boy. They think he's a bad omen. They tell him to make the boy go away, command him. But he brushes them away and tells them again to calm down.

"I told them to be quiet. They won't bother you."

"For now."

"Forever."

"I like your hair."

He falters and stops to look at the boy's hair. It's black, like normal shadows. Their hair colors are perfect. His is of the shadows of the kidnapped sun, and the boy's are of the shadows that take the place of the sun's. They go together. They _fit._

"I like yours."

"We have shadow hair."

"We do indeed."

"I'm Stan."

"My name is Kyle."

Those butterflies- where did they all go? Did the demons eat them? Bad demons. But wait! They're fading! His only friends, dissipating into the frostbitten air of the park. Where are you going?

He turns to face desperately the boy. The boy is watching him calmly, with cool, unconcerned eyes, like bread cooling hot from the oven. It's very disconcerting, powerlessly witnessing his _only friends_ disappearing before his eyes, this boy looking on without emotion, as if watching a leaf flutter past. But no, there _is_ something in his eyes- it's not relief, but that's acceptably close. It's like watching a danger pass, like he was watching a bee circling him around and around, then leaving, sparing him. It's a calm, not-attracting-attention kind of relief, the "O.K." that says, "Alright, you can relax now, it's gone." A breath leaving the parted lips in escape, tension unknotting, rigid stress melting like a popsicle on the hottest cook-an-egg-on-the-sidewalk summer day. Gone like ice in the spring.

He's helpless, sad. But it's a different kind of sad. Not gut-wrenching, stabbing pain kind of sad, but something he's not familiar with. It's like… happy sad. Relieved sad. The kind of sad that's like, "It's over, you can cry now."

"They're leaving," the boy comments nonchalantly. He gets those tears stinging in his eyes again.

"They're hurting," he whimpers. The boy looks mildly sad. Detached sad.

"Would you like a hug?" he offers kindly. The boy smiles through the sadness hanging like a veil over his face and holds out his arms, and he accepts, taking the embrace, the warmth that fails to comfort, but it's there, and that helps.

Then he's cut off from them, and he can no longer feel their angry hurting. Their screeching howls, pained and furious. Suddenly there's those tears again, rolling down his face, drip dripping into the boy's shirt. But it's okay, because he doesn't seem to mind.

"They're gone," he gasps, the happy sad flowing from his eyes. To him it feels more like sad and less like happy, but this boy's embrace is telling him that it's going to go away and soon there will be all happy and no sad. He's not sure how he feels about this new insight into the future, and supposes that he'll find out soon enough. Sure, he's lost his only friends for his whole enitre life, but he kind of likes this boy, this _Stan_, and hopes that by losing his old friends he can make a new one. And as he returns the firm, protective grasp of the boy as a more tentative, caressing hold, he knows. He doesn't know it all like Stan does, but he does know at least one thing.

The trees weren't waving a mocking goodbye. They were waving a welcoming hello.

-

_For some reason I imagine them as much younger in this, like second or third grade. Must be the way they talk and the way Kyle thinks. But yeah, I suppose the age doesn't really matter; they can be as old as you want them to be. They were originally supposed to be somewhere in highschool, but that was before I wrote it. _

_Whatever. That's just my interpretation of my writing. What do you think?_


End file.
